


Gods Of A Modern Age

by Sodafly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Gods, Implied Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just because we’re gods doesn't mean we have to be nasty to each other.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods Of A Modern Age

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Neil Gaiman's American Gods (which I am only half way through reading but love with a burning passion). I guess you could class this as a crossover, but I have not marked it as so, as I have not used character from the book itself. There are no spoilers for the book either. 
> 
> It's late, and as always I'm sorry for any mistakes

_“Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.”_ – _Neil Gainman, American Gods._

There’s a celebration, one held without reason, without need, just held on a  whim because they feel like. A celebration which Derek should not be attending. Not that he’s really attending, unless sitting sullenly on a rooftop counts as attending. The forest is in sight, making the night darkness even darker over peaked rooftops, smelling of pine and dirt and of animals both alive and dead. Derek wants to run back there, to curl up in his den, close his eyes and hope he’ll be able to open them in the morning. A human would pray, would beg whatever god they believed in to give them one more day, but there is no one for Derek to pray to, and no one praying to Derek.

Instead, there’s this celebration. There’s bright light fighting back the darkness, consuming the shadows with white hot fingers, making everything shine brighter. There’s music gobbling up the silence, greedy and insistent like a child at a candy store, all sticky fingers and chocolate smeared lips. There are people, ones who Derek does not know, will never know personally, but has heard of. These people, they’re the ones who killed Laura, who killed Peter, who are killing him.

They do not mean to, these people so joyful and smiling in the space below, they don’t mean to kill them. Humans advance in their own ever changing ways, create new things to worship, looking towards the future and ditching the weighted bags of tradition at the platform as soon as that super fast train pulls into the station. A train that will take them far, far away. Sometimes humans will take their bags with them, but will die and leave them there, abandoned in the over head locker to move with the times. They all die eventually; even the people celebrating will die in time.

“You do know there’s a party, don’t you wolf man?” The voice is bright and cheery, filled with youth. Stiles has clambered up onto the roof, having hauled himself out of a computer screen and through an open bedroom window, to sit at an old god’s side.  

Stiles grins, bright and perfect , the movement of his body leaving a small trail of light that fades within seconds.  It’s vibrant, every part of him glowing in intoxicating Technicolor. He’s dressed in jeans and a dirt smeared t-shirt, jacket torn and bloody with a patch of stitching at the elbow, taken straight from some zombie apocalypse game. It’s vastly different to Derek, who keeps it traditional in lace up breeches, leather boots, tunic with thick buckled on leather armour, wrapping in thick matted grey cloak and a black wolf’s pelt, which stretches over his body when he turns.

Stiles eyes glow in the darkness, whereas Derek’s never do anymore.

“They’re not my kind of people, you know this.” 

They’re people who feed off shopaholics and sports enthusiasts, their altars made from tills, credit cards and playing fields, their sacrifices well earned money and match scores.  Stiles himself, takes sacrifices out of every mutilated corpse in a virtual reality, feeding of their time and cramped up thumbs. They are new gods.

“You say that, yet you seem to take deep delight in my company.” It’s true, even if Derek hides the smile and tenses up. How is it that an old god and a new god can become so deeply entwined? 

Derek came across Stiles one a hot day in late June. The forest leaves shade the ground from the sun’s unforgivable heat, sunlight speckling the dried up twigs that Derek pads over, black fur grimy with dust and blood. He’s out hunting, relishing in the steady hum of wolf form, taking out the sorrow and anger on fat hares bounding through the underbrush. The blood is still tangy on his palette, long pink tongue licking over his muzzle, collecting crimson droplets and scraps of forgotten meat. Wolf form has been Derek’s home since Laura disappeared two weeks ago, vanished, forgotten, never to be heard of again. It is only a matter of time until Derek follows in her wake.

Lying, discarding on the forest floor, is a slim black console, the screen flashing and bleeping with the words ‘GAME OVER’  printing mockingly across a starry background. Curious, Derek sniffs, butting his wet nose against the soft screen. He can hear the soft hum inside, can smell the metal chips that acts as the consoles vital organs. It’s a device so unfamiliar. 

There’s a flare of light, so bright Derek is blinded for a moment, staggering backwards and falling back on his hind, whining and flattening his ears.  The light grows, rays reaching out in a splash of white and yellow, curling and weaving to form a figure of a boy. The boy is made from neon blue, pink and purple light, showing his body only to his belly button, eyes completely white with pixel fragments floating in the air around him like fireflies. He blinks.

“Well, this is new.” The boys says, looking down at newly formed limbs that he rotates for inspection. Derek growls, lips curling back to reveal rows of sharp bloodied fangs, spittle flecking the corner of his muzzle. Rising to all fours, Derek snaps his jaws, swiping his claws at one of the arms held up in surrender. Claws slips straight through, sending an electric shock through Derek’s body as the light flickers and the arm is gone. One of the three hearts on the boy’s shirt falls in half.

“Now...that wasn’t very nice.” The boy says solemnly, looking down at where his arm had once been. There is no blood. “Just because we’re gods doesn’t mean we have to be nasty to each other.”

Derek growls again, but does no lash out. Instead he paces, once, twice, three times, before allowing the black fur to shrink, to unthread from his limps and rise to two legs. Bones snap as the form shifts, claws retracting; fangs going blunt (all bar two, which remain sharp and pointed). He stands as a man before the projection, angry and scowling, arms folded defensively.

“How do you know I am a god?” The projection boy shrugs, smiles.

“Well not only did you just confirm my suspicion, but I could just feel it you know, like a sixth sense. Man you must be really fucking old, no one I know can turn into an animal these days, let alone make leather look that good.”

An appreciative once over is awarded. Good thing old goods don’t always have to look old.

“You can call me Stiles.” The projection... _Stiles_ , says. It not his real name.

“And you may call me Derek.” But then again, ‘Derek’ isn’t the wolf’s real name either.

Now, two months later, they’re sitting side by side on a rooftop, Stiles leaning back against Derek’s chest, watching the party take place.

“I fear I am going to die soon.” Derek whispers, as if saying the words will make them true, will set the words in stone and make them unchangeable. Everyone fears dying, even gods do.

“No, not yet.” Stiles protests, reaching a hand back to fist in the shaggy wolfs pelt, as if clinging will keep Derek here. Derek smiles at the naivety, because Derek is old, older than anyone here and Stiles is a youthful, a youthful god who takes away an old gods life force in exchange for thousands upon thousands of year ahead of him. Stiles is killing Derek, has been killing him from the start.

“Laura is dead, as is Peter before her; the gods who travelled across the sea with me are long gone. It is only fate that I join them soon.” Derek bruises his face in the warmth of Stiles’ neck, breathing in the odourless air and feeling the electric taste of pixels zap his lips. “I have had my years, just as you will have yours.”

“But, I believe in you, surely that could keep you here, having a god who believes in you?”

“You know that isn’t how it works.” Derek is doomed; a god cannot give power, cannot give life to another god, only human’s can give those things. Their fingers lace, Stiles outshining Derek who emerges with the darkness.

One day, when autumn leaves are falling from tired branches, toasted a luscious orange; a new god will grow, waiting for the moment he can be set free to see the outside world, and an old god will die, curled up in sleep before fading into nothingness. 


End file.
